


Days in the Sun

by StardustDreamMate



Category: NCT (Band), WAYV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Best Friendship, Castles, Discussions of death, Gen, M/M, NCT Dream as Household objects, Strained Friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:35:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28137045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StardustDreamMate/pseuds/StardustDreamMate
Summary: He supposes it’s poetic, as he watches Donghyuck pace the gardens below, paws leaving gouges in the pristine, white snow. They are all trapped in this castle, frozen in time and in spirit, the world whirling past outside of their bubble at a speed that Jeno will never match, no matter how fast he swings. Maybe there will even be writers and poets and songwriters who will romanticize their tragedies one day.
Relationships: Huang Ren Jun/Lee Jeno, Na Jaemin & Park Jisung, Park Jisung & Zhong Chen Le, Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun & Zhong Chen Le
Comments: 5
Kudos: 3





	Days in the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovelies~ This was largely inspired by Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, but there’s also some little liberties and twists I took. The title comes from one of the songs off of the live action movie’s soundtrack, [Days in the Sun](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=deVaBYbP3WY), that inspired me to write about the inhabitants of the castle. I hope you’ll all enjoy~ <3 
> 
> TW: Lots of discussions of death 
> 
> I don’t speak for or represent any of the NCT members in any way, and this is a work of fiction based on my interpretations of idols. Please take all of this with a grain of salt and know that I mean no harm to any and all of the NCT members.

Jeno sits on the windowsill of the castle and listens to the ticking of his gears, tapping a single, wooden arm against his siding. It echoes across the cold, unfeeling stone and bounces back with a hollow note that mirrors the void inside of him. The sounds don’t mix at all, one rhythmic and one syncopated. Jeno’s never found it odd before today, though. 

The panes of glass in front of him are frosted silver with the crystals of ice Jeno can still taste on his tongue, and if he could breathe, he would be able to clear the frozen mist with a single puff of air. But Jeno is not alive anymore, and breath does not fill the lungs he does not have. Instead, his gears whirl to the swing of the pendulum keeping an endless rhythm of _tick_ and _tock._

He supposes it’s poetic, as he watches Donghyuck pace the gardens below, paws leaving gouges in the pristine, white snow. They are all trapped in this castle, frozen in time and in spirit, the world whirling past outside of their bubble at a speed that Jeno will never match, no matter how fast he swings. Maybe there will even be writers and poets and songwriters who will romanticize their tragedies one day. 

The hour turns when Jeno does, following the sound of racing feet, and he rings when Yangyang bounds up the stairs, tassels flapping against his upholstery as he runs around the room excitedly, yipping. The puppy has always been excitable, but today, Jeno simply can’t keep up. It seems unfair to try and fail, so he settles for what he can achieve: the bare minimum. 

“What is it, Yangyang?” Jeno sighs, turning back to the window as the puppy prances around the study for a little while longer. He cringes a little when what sounds like a vase falls over, but he’s too tired to care. Donghyuck has since moved away from his viewable patch of the gardens, but he can still see the black roses that his master has picked, lying as shadowed stains on the carpet of perpetual crystals, thrown away and forgotten. 

Just like the rest of them will be. Living poetry, teetering on the cusp of decadence and disaster. 

Where Jeno would have shuddered from the tips of his hair to the ends of his toes, his entire body trembling and rising with goosebumps, all he can manage now is to spin his hands in circles, screwing up the time as his gears re-wind. It’s always felt a little strange to mess with the rhythm that’s become so integral to his being, but no matter what he does, time in the castle will not move on so it’s not as if he’s affecting anything. What he does is of no consequence to the world beyond. It has forsaken them, and Jeno feels his rhythm sync more every day, almost in spite. 

_Tick tock._ There’s some beauty to his job. He keeps the order, grounds the younger inhabitants, takes care of who he can. His rhythm has made him more dependable than he could ever dream, but the rhythms that wind throughout his frame will become his tomb someday. 

And it’s already starting. Every day, Jeno becomes more clock than human, more metal than spirit, more wood than flesh.

It won’t be long before he is nothing more than nuts and bolts. 

“Humans in the forest!” The puppy-turned-footstool barks, drawing Jeno back as he scrambles up onto the ledge with Jeno and licks his face with an energetic tassel. “I smelled them! Hyuckie too! I can feel it, Jeno! They’ll save us; I just know it!” 

_They’ll save us._

Of all his duties, lying to the younger ones about hope is what he regrets most. 

Were Yangyang’s wishes to come true, they would return to their bodies, and the puppy would cease to talk. Jisung would no longer be a boy forever, and Dejun and Chenle would be reunited again to perform. Donghyuck would have found love, love so potent it could thaw the ice in his heart; Jaemin could cook again, with hands and not commands, and Renjun...Jeno can’t allow himself to think about Renjun right now because hope is the only luxury he cannot afford. 

But Jeno...Jeno would have _flesh_ again. His workings would be of blood, sinew, and bone, not metal, wood, and glass. A body made for dancing, not timekeeping. His mind wouldn’t hum with the churning of gears, and his body could move how he wished, not hobble from place to place on wooden stubs that have since hardened forevermore. 

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

Snow spirals down from the sky of endless grey, thick, luscious flakes falling onto the garden of thorns, roses, and broken promises. 

_Poetry in motion._

When Jeno tries to turn to look at the puppy again, he finds it too hard to move. 

Somewhere in the garden, another rose turns black. 

Chenle stretches out his legs and wiggles his eyebrows at Jisung who’s sitting on the floor in front of him and watching with wide eyes.

“What will it be today, Sungie?” 

“[ Dance in F Major ](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=wGD6YJPBE74)? Please?” His porcelain smile is too softly sweet for Chenle to resist, and he gives in willingly to the symphony of notes he can already see. They dance across his eyes and fly across his keys, producing a trilling melody that floats through the ballroom on tendrils of gold. The music slips through the dusty, darkened room and lights it up, removing years of age and disuse from the gilded walls. 

Out of all of the punishments in the world, Chenle feels unbearably lucky to have been gifted his music. It has always been there, climbing up the walls of his heart and sliding out of his fingertips, but to become _one_ with the music is heaven on earth. 

There are some days where the tinkling sound of his keys and the quiet thunk of his pedals are enough for him, and there are others where he misses performing with Dejun like a lost piece of his soul. Need still bubbles within him every so often to play for an audience, for someone other than himself and Jisung, but it is always set off by the passion within him. If this is what it will take...

How could he ever resent it? 

The last notes fade away, reverberating through the strings inside him as the hammers settle down, and Jisung starts beaming an adorable grin, bouncing up and down on the floor. 

"That was so _pretty,_ Chenle!” The teacup sighs dreamily, eyes wide and innocent, rimmed with pretty fleur-de-lis. It's very easy to forget how young he is when he sits with Chenle and tells him that he's learning about harmonic motion from Jeno, but it always comes back to him when Chenle plays, a childlike wonder that still lingers no matter what he does. 

He really does make Chenle feel old, then. 

"Thank you.” Chenle takes a little bow with his legs, folding them back behind him, and the teacup giggles when he hops up into the space between Chenle's second set of keys and his fallboard, cuddling in close. He dips his stand’s arm around to hug his best friend. "Do you have any other requests?”

"Yes! Let me think...wait, Chenle?”

Chenle trills an A and a B flat, playing the fourth and first inversions of an A minor scale's chord cadences just for fun and to see Jisung smile again.“Yes?”

“Why does Yangyang want humans to come here?” 

Chenle looks down at the painted lavender eyes staring up at him with unbridled curiosity and feels something sink within him. He doesn't know how to explain it to him, and he's not even sure he's the right person for it. Jeno has always been better at these things, but Jaemin would want to tell Jisung himself. 

He settles for a sigh, a minor arpeggio filling the ballroom as he tries to think.

Jisung was too young to remember the curse, and Renjun is the only reason he ever animated. The steward had found the little teacup in a box in the back of the dining room years after the lives had ended, and upon opening it, the child had animated, blinking to life in Renjun’s arms as Jaemin lingered, stars in his eyes.

Where the inhabitants of the dining room had been overjoyed to have a baby to pamper, it had quickly become apparent that the curse would freeze the youngster in time as well. The rest of them were so old and relatively similar in age that it was hard to tell if their ageing was slowed or halted entirely, but after a hundred years, their hope had run out. 

“I think you should talk to Jaemin about it,” Chenle finally manages. “He probably knows how to explain it best.” 

“Okay.” Jisung nudges Chenle's music stand, eyebrows furrowing around his handle, lips pursing like a rosebud. “Is it really that bad?”

Is it?

For Chenle? No. He loves the castle, and he loves his music. The curse is not so terrible. When he ceases to exist, it will be sad, but he won't know it anyway. There’s some comfort in being ignorant of the “when”, in Chenle’s opinion, and he only hopes that he'll be able to play one last song with Dejun before then. 

For the rest of the inhabitants, it will be another story. For Jeno...it will be painful. Already is, if Chenle is being truthful. The rest of his friends are trapped within objects that don't mirror their souls the way his piano does, and many of them are starting to calcify. It will not be pretty, and it will be very, _very_ slow. 

“I don't know. I am sorry.” 

The next tune he plays is keening and sorrowful, D minor coaxing the shadows of the ballroom back into the light. 

Jaemin tucks Jisung into the cloth gently, carefully, nudging the child into a crevice between the dishware until he’s sure the boy is entirely protected. He’s asleep, delicately painted eyes shut tight, little rattles coming from his saucer as he snores. 

He’s so _young._

The teapot bubbles some warmth inside himself, even as it feels like his porcelain skin is cracking over this little boy he’s raised since the beginning of his life. Since the _end_ of his life. 

He had not been expecting their conversation tonight. Perhaps that's a good thing. It's the spices of life that keep him from getting bogged down with grounds, but still, he had not been prepared. 

How do you explain to your child that their life was over before it ever began? That their survival hinges on someone loving the pain out of Donghyuck's heart? 

When the castle had frozen and they all had turned, Jaemin had never expected to be in love again. With Jisung, it hadn’t taken a single thought; everything was natural. 

Jaemin can still remember the awe he felt when Renjun pulled the tiny little teacup out of the bureau, holding the child in his arms as he came to life in front of their eyes. Even alive, Jaemin had never felt a connection that was as strong and instant as his with Jisung, and when the baby had turned to him, the heart he’d lost had sputtered to life and filled with an urge to nurture that he had never felt before. 

Steam whistles out from the floral rim of his lid and Jaemin hops up onto the stack of dishes above Jisung, careful not to expend too much energy. Jeno had told him his suspicions: that the garden was turning faster than ever, the clock’s hands spinning every which direction even as their owner struggled to speak. It was and is terrifying, but Jaemin has been lucky enough that he and Jisung have not felt the effects. 

He can’t imagine a world where the teacup could freeze before him. 

It's already hard enough to imagine a world without his best friend. 

Jaemin tips himself over slowly, spilling the boiled liquid into Jisung’s basin to warm the little boy, filling him up just to the very edge of the tiny chip in his veneer. He looks peaceful in sleep, like the child he will always be, no matter how well Jeno counts time, no matter how beautifully Chenle plays, and no matter how much Jaemin cherishes him. 

Their conversation has awakened a fear Jaemin had long tried to silence: Jisung will always be a boy, trapped within an old, chipped teacup until the world beyond ceases to exist. Some day, Jaemin will leave him, spirit draining away before his baby's essence even begins to evaporate. Tea will stop brewing inside of him, and the vibrant paint on his body will start to crack and fade. 

It is normal for a parent to die before their child, for their posterity to bury them with weeping, teary eyes, but the thought does not comfort Jaemin. When the rest of them have been frozen solid, who will be left but Donghyuck and Jisung? 

What then? 

When Jaemin settles down beside Jisung, nestling his baby into the space between his spout and body, the kitchen gets quiet around him, the dishes preparing to rest for the night. In the hum of down-time, the teapot looks down at the precious little teacup, his eyes linger on the chip as he blows him a single heart of steam. As he does, he swears he can hear his glaze begin to crack. 

Dejun plucks another piece of cloth out of his drawers with a bored expression, directing it around the mannequin with a few pins, draping it around the neck of the man. It doesn't look quite right, falling rather limply around the blue velvet collar, and he attaches it to the shirt underneath instead, ruffling it delicately to test out a new idea. It sits better this way, and the ruffles frame the collar of the jacket instead of washing it out. 

Good. 

Dejun riffles through his collection again, this time looking for gold-coloured buttons. He thinks he left them next to the taffeta, but he can't remember. As he works, he hums along to a song Chenle played years ago that still echoes in his head. Aria, he thinks, and the melody carries him through locating eighteen of his finest brass buttons. They're not quite shiny enough for his grand image, but they'll have to do. He snorts derisively, ribbons falling out of his open doors. It's not as if Donghyuck _wears_ clothes anymore, anyway. The rest of them have no need for apparel, but it's not as if he can't enjoy himself. 

Eternity is an incredibly long time to be an unwieldy wardrobe. 

To say he's bitter would be an understatement. 

As the only inhabitant of the castle who can't walk around, it's pretty annoying to be stuck upstairs in the East Wing away from the rest of the staff, not to mention he used to be a _musician._ How does that translate to a _tailor_? 

He still gets to sing his songs, but they aren’t with his maestro. He gets to be tall, but he can’t walk to see anyone. He still gets to “live” rather than die, but a slow death is not really what he had in mind. The curse dealt them all strange hands, but his is the most contradictory. 

Sewing on the buttons with deft movements, Dejun watches his vision come to life. It's not as satisfying as making music, but it passes the time well. His bottom drawers of yellow silk and golden filigree and appliqué no longer open, but the rest of him functions well. When he last talked to Renjun, he was one of two inhabitants starting to freeze.

Brilliant. 

The wardrobe sizes up the blue brocade and velvet evening jacket with a smile, whisking it off the mannequin to tuck away in his seemingly-endless recesses. It nestles in with the hundreds of clothes Dejun has made since the curse fell, and he turns his attention to the cloak Donghyuck had brought him for mending. 

The fabric is dyed a rich purple, and it's most likely cashmere, but the expensive luxury of it is marred by the ridiculous amount of gashes through it, each about as long as Dejun used to be tall. He understands Donghyuck has a temper, but he does not understand trashing what little clothes he agrees to wear.

Summoning a collection of needles and a new medallion clasp, Dejun sets to work on mending his master's clothing, straining enough that he can just _barely_ hear Chenle's melodies twinkling through the barren castle. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he lingers on Yangyang's words from earlier. 

_Humans in the forest._

The drawer filled with yellow silk and satin feels very heavy today. 

Renjun hops up the stairs slowly, trying not to catch his burnished edges on any of the rough, grating stones. They wind around to mirror the walls of the castle turrets, but on either side is a deadly drop. It would be sure to dent his arms and candle pans, and then Renjun would have to inconvenience Jaemin to help steam and bend him back into shape. 

He doesn’t think they can handle any more inconvenience. 

With Jeno incapacitated, preparing the meals with Jaemin and keeping the household clean and orderly are exhaustive affairs. Donghyuck is prickly as always, and Renjun can't find it in him to mouth off too much anymore. The master of the castle already knows he resents him, what more is there to say now? 

He’s already screamed with Donghyuck about his selfishness a thousand times, about his unwillingness to go out and find someone to save the rest of them. They’d thrown some things, and Renjun had set things on fire, but nothing came out of it. Nothing ever did. Donghyuck was too hurt, too broken, and Renjun was too limited. The castle _will_ be their cemetery.

It is just a question of when.

A flame flares to life on one of his three candles, the wick catching and burning in a small shower of sparks that chase away the shadows of the castle and the shadows in his mind. Renjun can’t help but sigh a little in relief at the sight; having visited Jeno so often lately and seen what’s happening to him, not being able to function properly has been on the forefront of his mind. 

Then, he immediately feels guilty because Jeno’s not doing this on purpose, and it’s not his fault at all. Really, it’s Donghyuck’s, but right now, Renjun can’t muster up anything other than fear, the only other emotion saturating his sadness. 

He’s the oldest. He’s supposed to take care of everyone, right alongside the mantle clock, and Jeno’s always been the one to remind him to take care of himself, the water when Renjun feels like burning the world down around him. Without him...Renjun’s afraid of what he’ll become. 

Nearly to the top of the stairwell leading up to the study, Renjun stops. It would be so much easier to turn away and go see Jaemin, bask in the teapot’s company, and keep Jisung warm. He could hide away and avoid the inevitable, shirk the responsibility he both wants and resents. 

No. 

Renjun climbs the last of the stairs and looks down at them quietly, seeing their seemingly endless sprawl. Someday, maybe even today, Jeno won’t be able to make it down ever again. He’ll never see the bustle of the kitchens, never hear Chenle’s music, and never see Dejun’s newest designs. He loves Jeno too much to leave him all alone now. 

It doesn’t make it any easier to open the door when he gets there, pushing through a loose panel, but he remembers the beautiful smile and the beautiful personality waiting for him behind the door, and it’s not an issue. 

“Hey.” He’s sitting on top of the windowsill again, looking down at the gardens. He always gets depressed when he’s nostalgic, and he’s nostalgic because it’s a side effect of dying. Renjun understands the process but not the projection. Still, where the candelabra would have normally scolded him for being too morbid, the words won’t come, stuck somewhere inside of him like melted wax. 

Jeno needs a little bit less criticism and a lot more hope. 

Renjun shuffles over to the fireplace filled with ashes, lighting it with a touch of his candles before joining Jeno on the windowsill. The clock doesn’t even turn to look at him, but Renjun understands. 

“What’s on your mind, love?” 

“I can’t even kiss you anymore.” Jeno looks over at him with a pout of frowning numbers instead of lips, but Renjun’s hopelessly endeared just the same. He’s always endeared when it’s Jeno, even when they were still human, except now it feels like he’s suffocating from it. 

And still, he has to brush it off. 

“Of all things to be sad about, you silly boy, that’s not what you should be worrying about! Focus on getting better, then we can be together again one day.” It sounds hollow, even to him. 

Jeno’s pout softens into a sad smile, and Renjun sees how much energy it takes for his lover to turn and face him. His flame flickers and Jeno’s eyes snap up to watch it. Something softens in his face that scares Renjun to the ends of the earth. Jeno has always been sweet, kind, and caring, attuned to every emotion of every person he’s ever met, but the last thing Renjun wants him to do is to read the fear that’s laced in his every action.

“You know I’m not a boy anymore, Renjun,” Jeno says quietly, “and you know that it’s not up to us to be together, it never has been. I can’t do anything, and neither can you. It’s probably better if you just leave me-” 

“Stop.” Renjun wraps his arms around Jeno and holds him aggressively close, shoving them together as if it could actually comfort either of them. “Stop, don’t say that, stop it, Jeno.” He presses his cheek into the wooden shoulder of Jeno’s body and wishes they were born somewhere else, that they were different people with different circumstances that could save them both. 

He feels Jeno’s hands swirl around to touch his cheek, delicate filigree against wrought gold. “You know it’s true, sweetheart.” 

“Stop! I don’t want to talk about it! You can’t say that! Don’t _say_ that!” Renjun clings tighter to Jeno, candles crossing protectively over his back. There’s wax dripping down one of his arms, but the thought of letting go of Jeno is nearly impossible to bear. 

This is why he didn’t want to see him, and this is why he had to. 

The fire he had lit crackles quietly behind them in a cruel mockery of ambience as the logs go up in flames, burnt away to nothing but ash. Renjun wishes he was the one in their place. Anything, and everything, to not have to exist without Jeno. 

Pressing closer is physically impossible, and yet he tries anyway. Perhaps if he works hard enough, wood and metal will fuse and they’ll never be separate, RenjunJeno, JenoRenjun, but never Renjun and Jeno. Maybe then they’ll be together forever. 

“I—”

“Maybe I just don’t want you to watch me die,” Jeno murmurs so softly that Renjun isn’t even sure he heard him right. He can feel the heart he ought to have cleaving in two, and one of his flames sputters out in a cheap imitation of the tears Renjun wishes he could cry. “Is that so much to ask for?” 

_Oh, my love, I’m so sorry._ Renjun blows out his other candle, tries not to tremble, and wraps a metallic arm around the clock as the hour turns and his lover chimes for what could very well be the last time. 

Mark stands on the edge of the vast forest and looks up, craning his neck to see the shadow looming in the distance. Without the stories, Mark wouldn’t have even known it existed. It usually stands over the twisting, thick woods, barely visible through the clouds that shrouded the village, but once at the edge of the thicket, an outline forms in the mist, blanketed by snow, towers scraping the edges of the sky. Tall, dark, and infinitely mysterious. 

The lost castle. 

There are stories in the village of talking clocks and dancing candelabras, animated cookware and possessed footstools. Of a beast who wanders the neglected gardens filled with the devil’s roses, black like the darkest ebony. 

A castle of lost inhabitants, enshrouded in vines and snow.

_What is your secret?_

Mark slinks out of the forest carefully, one hand on his knife, one holding a torch, and he’s careful to dodge the branches littering the forest floor. From what he’s heard of the stories, excess noise is suicide. Somewhere inside, there is a creature who can hear it all.

As soon as he crosses out of the woods, the summer weather turns to ice, and a brisk, winter wind whips his cloak around him into a frenzy, obscuring his vision of the castle, and, disoriented, he nearly walks into the stone pilasters of the gates. 

Mark Lee, village genius. 

Beyond the gates he about smashed his face into, an endless sprawl of hedges awaits, framing the entrance to the most statuesque building he’s ever seen. Somewhere in the turrets, a fire burns, smoke escaping through a hatch in the roof. 

Mark steps around the gates and into the garden, and his torch sputters out. _Magic._ His admittedly weak sense of self-preservation starts to kick in, and he glances furtively around, slinking through the hedges one at a time. The deep snow ensures his footprints will stick, and he’s careful to stay close to the hedges in the blindspots. As he moves, the roses around him bloom white from black buds. If he were anywhere else, their checkerboard appearance would fascinate him, but the cold is too pressing to ignore. 

The prospect of a fire has never been more enticing. He can see it in the windows of the castle, stained glass rippling with the flames he can tell are behind it. The question is: who is inside with it? 

He can’t wait to finally learn the _truth._

After what feels like hours and seconds both, Mark reaches the steps to the castle, and he’s yet to see a trace of a single human. What looks like bear tracks litter the snow of the perimeter and it only makes him more anxious to get inside. Useless torch discarded, his hand falls back onto his knife as he slips through the open doors. 

Immediately, warmth envelops him, and he sees a footstool _bark_ and then—

“What are you doing in _my_ castle?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading~ Feel free to leave a kudos or a comment and let me know your thoughts~ I appreciate all of you, please to take care of yourselves and stay safe! <3 
> 
> Twitter: @MateStardust


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